The driver also jumped out of the car to check the condition behind it. On the road behind, there were two distinct green streaks, the end of which led not to a person, but to a stone funerary figurine—life-sized—that had been broken by the car. The figurine was not solid; it only had an outer stone shell, the inside being hollow. It had shattered into numerous fragments, and crawling out from within were dense clusters of white (upper part: fēng radical with one horizontal stroke + dāo, lower part: chóng radical) insects. Countless (upper part: fēng radical with one horizontal stroke + dāo, lower part: chóng radical) insects were crushed by the vehicle's wheels, leaving pools of green ichor leaking from their dead bodies on the ground—a sight so nauseating it threatened to induce vomiting.

After inspecting the wreckage below, the driver stomped a few of the creatures underfoot, cursing his bad luck. "Where did this rotten rock full of maggots come from to smash up my car like this?" he grumbled, noting a significant dent.

iryley Yang pointed to a shard of stone on the ground through the car window and said to me, "Old Hu, look at the style of this funerary figurine—it mimics Han Dynasty designs. Could it be a relic from the time of the Xian King?"

I nodded. "It does bear some resemblance, but why is the figurine just a shell? Packed with so many insects, and now crushed by the car, it’s hard to make a definitive identification based on its exterior alone. We can't conclude it's from the Han Dynasty just yet."

I looked up through the window toward the towering cliff face, wreathed in mist, unable to discern where it might have fallen from. Perhaps there was an ancient site nearby on the mountains; it seemed we had entered the sphere of the Xian King's influence from long ago. But why were there so many maggots growing inside this effigy?

The more I thought about it, the more uneasy I became, so I asked the tea vendor if he had ever encountered such a thing before. He replied, "These kinds of stone figures are even more common around Mount Zhelong; they're buried in the mountains, and sometimes landslides expose them. They are always filled with fat maggots. Some say they are ancient humanoid coffins, but that’s just hearsay—no one knows their exact purpose. The locals detest these things; they consider them an inauspicious sign, portending illness and death. Running into one today is our misfortune; we’ll need to go to the Yuhuang Pavilion in a few days to get a silver talisman for protection."

Fearing that showing too much interest in these matters might expose my intentions, I stopped asking questions and instead discussed local customs and history with the tea vendor. Mount Zhelong marked the edge of the Bai Autonomous Prefecture, home to the Bai, Han, and a very small number of Jingpo and Dai peoples. The liveliest festival is in March, when all the men, women, and children gather below Mount Cangshan for various activities, including antiphonal folk singing and temple fairs—a truly vibrant scene.

I had no interest in these festivities. After a brief chat, I steered the conversation back to Mount Zhelong, using the pretense of catching butterflies to inquire about the local terrain from the tea vendor.

The tea vendor said that although he was a local, the mountain range of Mount Zhelong acted like a boundary marker here; few people ever crossed over to the other side. He warned that the other side was full of venomous insects and noxious mists; the valleys were humid and stifling, with miasma lingering year-round. Many people had gone missing there, and no local was willing to venture in. Furthermore, Mount Zhelong was exceedingly high, with a snow line, and the weather was notoriously fickle—hail, torrential rain, fierce winds—striking without warning, turning clear daylight into a tempest in an instant. Climbing Mount Zhelong without a large escort was extremely risky.

Since the collision that shattered the maggot-filled stone figurine, the driver had slowed the car considerably, likely worried that hitting such an object was unlucky, so he tried to maintain a smoother pace. As we gradually left the treacherous stretch of mountain road along the cliff, we all breathed a sigh of relief. Fatty, who had seemed to revive during the incident, overheard the tea vendor’s words and couldn't help but ask, "Hey, this mountain—it sounds a bit like the snow mountain the Red Army climbed back then? Is it the same one?"

I replied to him, "The Red Army climbed Jiajin Mountain, which is a different place entirely, much further north. However, the rapids you saw earlier on the Lancang River cliff are similar to the Jinsha River not far from here. If you want to strengthen your revolutionary ideological studies, you could jump in for a swim and experience the sentiment of the Chairman’s poem: 'The warm clouds kiss the cliffs above the Jinsha waters'; then, scale Mount Zhelong, and you can pretend you are re-walking the Long March route, climbing snow mountains and crossing grasslands."

Fatty retorted, "The soldiers walked the world with their feet; 'Four Crossings of the Chishui River with sudden maneuvers,' 'The perilous crossing of the Wujiang River,' 'Army at the gates of Guiyang, reaching Kunming'—these are all points along the route. If you want to walk the Long March, you must do it honestly, starting from the beginning, not picking up halfway! You are clearly displaying tendencies toward opportunism."

While we were chatting, the car pulled to a stop. The tea vendor quickly urged us to disembark, as this was the closest stop for reaching Mount Zhelong. Besides the three of us and the tea vendor, two local women also got off here: one, in her thirties, carrying a small child on her back; the other, about sixteen or seventeen. Both wore headscarves and embroidered aprons over white-based clothing. The local custom values the color white, so they were likely Bai women. However, these minority groups didn't always dress in the flamboyant, colorful attire one might imagine; they wouldn't wear their festive best unless it was a holiday, and with so many ethnic groups around, it was often difficult to distinguish them.

I hadn't wanted to travel with these people, but the earnest tea vendor told us that in sparsely populated areas, it was customary to travel in groups for mutual support and assistance. irley Yang, having worked extensively with Native Americans in the past, understood these local customs and advised that outsiders should comply to avoid unnecessary conflicts. Thus, we ended up accompanying the three women.

This entire region was characterized by high mountains and deep valleys, sparsely populated, with dense forests. We navigated the winding, rugged mountain paths, only to realize that the distance from where we got off to Mount Zhelong was still considerable. I secretly congratulated myself for not parting ways with the locals; finding the right path would have been genuinely difficult otherwise.

After walking for over two hours in the mountains, we finally reached the base of Mount Zhelong. There were no hamlets or villages here; even the stone quarry workers lived farther away. At the base, there was only one inn catering to merchants who came here to do tea business. The two Bai women who had accompanied us were the owners of this very inn, Caiyun Inn, returning from a supply run. Making a trip out of the mountains was arduous, so they needed to stock up on everything at once. Laden with bulky packages and with a child in tow, Fatty and I played the part of selfless heroes, helping them carry not only our own fifty-plus pounds of gear but also their sacks of rice and chilies. By the time we arrived, we were exhausted and aching.

Besides the six of us, the inn was empty. The locals were honest and never locked their doors when they went out. If a traveler passed by, they could stay inside; there was water in the jar, and cooked cakes and rice in the pot. After eating their fill and sleeping until dawn, guests would leave money in the rice jar upon departure—an established custom, and no one had ever stayed without paying.

The Bai woman with the child was the young widow who owned the Caiyun Inn; the sixteen or seventeen-year-old girl was her deceased husband's sister, a Han girl nicknamed Peacock, who had large, lively, and charming eyes. She looked far better in ethnic dress than the local women. Since the Caiyun Inn was the only place to rest and stay at the base of Mount Zhelong, merchants traveling south for a day's journey to acquire a type of tea called "Mist Peak Golden Thread Fragrant Tea" often stopped here.

The proprietress was deeply grateful for our help with the baggage. As soon as we entered, she and Peacock set about starting a fire to brew tea and cook for us. Before long, Peacock brought out the tea. Fatty took a sniff and exclaimed, "This is truly fragrant! Little sister, what kind of tea is this? Is it the famous Pu'er from Yunnan?"

Peacock replied to Fatty, "No, this is the Mist Peak Golden Thread Fragrant Tea grown on our local mountain, brewed with water that flows down from the snow line. Every leaf looks like it’s made of gold. Try it—isn't it wonderful?"

Fatty took a sip and said, "I know it's good without drinking it; look who brewed it." He then took out cigarettes, offering some to me and the tea vendor, enjoying the tea and smoke while waiting for the proprietress to serve dinner.

Intent on showing off his erudition to Peacock, Fatty pulled out another pack of Hongtashan cigarettes and said to the tea vendor, "Brother, you should know that smoking also requires pairing. We just smoked Yunyan; now switching to Hongtashan offers a different flavor entirely. In the capital, this pairing has a name: 'Towering Cloud Everlasting.'"

Peacock wasn't interested in Fatty's cigarette theories but was very curious about the insect nets we carried, asking irley Yang, "Are you going to catch butterflies over at Zhelong Wall?"

irley Yang didn't want to lie to the young girl, so she let Fatty take the lead in explaining. I worried that Fatty might talk nonsense and expose us. This task of mobilizing the masses felt better suited to me, given my aptitude for political commissar work.

So, I told Peacock that the three of us were from the capital, working at the Natural History Museum, specializing in collecting rare butterflies from around the world. We were here specifically to capture butterflies, create specimens, and take them back to Beijing for exhibition, to show foreigners visiting our great motherland what Yunnan butterflies look like. This work would not only fill a gap in China's research in areas like butterfly specimens but also bring glory to the nation, generate income, and strive for the realization of the Four Modernizations, creating one success after another on the new Long March of Reform and Opening Up. From every perspective, this was a grand undertaking for the country and the people—a cutting-edge scientific endeavor of strategic importance, with practical significance no less than humanity’s moon landing project.

Unexpectedly, my speech not only greatly excited Peacock but also stunned Fatty and the tea vendor into silence. The tea vendor asked, "Maimaisasa [a local expression of surprise], this business is really something... I mean, Master Hu, are these butterflies really that valuable? Maybe I shouldn't sell tea anymore. Can I join you in catching them?"

irley Yang, wearing sunglasses, fought hard to keep from laughing at my grand pronouncements to Peacock—she looked almost like a KMT female spy, as if mocking me, waiting to see how I would extricate myself.

I realized I had gone too far. I quickly told the tea vendor, "Well, revolutionary work has no distinction between high and low; there are only different revolutionary assignments. Whether you're selling tea or catching butterflies, both contribute bricks and mortar to the Four Modernizations. The work isn't complete without either. We are all screws in the socialist machine. If you were to drop your current work to catch butterflies, would the whole nation stop drinking tea just to look at butterflies? In fact, foreigners also enjoy tea; the tea culture has a long history with enthusiasts worldwide. A good friend of the Chinese people, Prince Sihanouk, greatly enjoys sipping tea, so selling tea is also a very important and meaningful job."

Just then, Peacock's sister-in-law called Peacock to help prepare dinner, giving me an opportunity to stop talking. After hastily eating something, I went outside the inn alone and used my binoculars to survey the situation at Mount Zhelong. The highest peak pierced the clouds, flanked by steep, endless cliffs stretching and rolling away, making it impossible to tell if the summit was capped with white clouds or snow. The mist here was indeed abundant and clearly layered: wisps of greenish smoke began to form at the mountain waist, growing into thicker clusters at higher altitudes, blocked and condensed by the sheer mass of the mountain. The mountain body was light green granite, making the main peak of Mount Zhelong resemble a warrior in white armor and green plating, standing erect amidst the sea of forest.

Below, the forest was vast, and the waterfalls and earth pillars displayed diverse, beautiful, pristine natural scenery. The mountains and rivers here roughly matched the drawings on the human skin map. Deep in the valley behind this massive forest lay the tomb of the Xian King we were searching for. As for whether the Muchen Pearl was actually inside the tomb, we had absolutely no certainty.

Recalling the evil "Zhong Technique" and the swarming maggots found in the stone figurine on the road, a degree of fear crept into my heart regarding the "Tomb of the Xian King." However, since we had arrived, we must settle in. Having reached "Mount Zhelong," retreat was not an option; all that remained was to pray for the blessing of the Patriarch of Grave Robbing.

The tea vendor planned to leave early the next morning to purchase tea, so after dinner, he retired to the back room to rest quickly. After eating, Fatty and irley Yang came out for a stroll with me, and we all gazed up at the immense mountain ahead. Before we could attempt to enter the tomb of the Xian King, crossing this soaring Mount Zhelong presented a major obstacle. Seeing the precipitous and majestic mountainside, all three of us knitted our brows in worry.

Previously, the Blind Man and his group had hired a local guide and traversed the snow mountain after arduous trekking; attempting the ascent without a guide was extremely dangerous. But when we asked the proprietress of Caiyun Inn, she informed us that all the locals who had ever climbed Mount Zhelong were long dead. Rumors of ghosts haunting the mountain had circulated for years, and no one dared to ascend anymore.

Just as we were racking our brains for a solution, Peacock spoke up: "If you want to go to the valley on the other side of Mount Zhelong to catch butterflies, there's a tunnel beneath Mount Zhelong. You can use it for rafting downstream and pass through the mountain without climbing over it. But," she added, "there are many dead people over there, and it’s often said to be haunted."